Yesterday, as Hubs pulled the bed covers over his head to begin his thirteenth nap of the day, he gazed at me with his feverish, glassy eyes and whispered in his weakened voice, “Love me in your heart, honey. Treasure me in your soul. Don’t forget me after I expire.”
And then he weakly hummed a bit of the chorus from “My Heart Will Go On.”
So, you know, no drama whatsoever with the stomach flu patient.
After getting rid of every internal organ he possessed, via a good hurl or twenty-six in the toilet, Hubs’ fever hit 102 degrees, and he kept whispering, “I’m so cold. So. Cold.”
And then there were more refrains from “My Heart Will Go On,” so I left him, suited up in my rubber gloves and created a toxic cloud of fumes in the bathroom, as I poured Clorox on every square inch of surface area.
Which is a lot.
I’m happy to report that, for the first time in forty-eight hours, Hubs has been out of bed for a bit tonight, as he migrated downstairs to the family room, for the sole purpose of mocking Dr. Quinn.
Yes, it was a rather slow and quiet evening at the Jedi Manor, so I took it upon myself to surf some channels this evening, and then! Then I found Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, and I introduced the boy to it.
We watched the episode where the miners are trying to form a union, and Matthew crosses the line to venture into the mine and bring out some silver, but the mine collapses, and he’s stuck inside. Naturally, Dr. Quinn and Sully leave poor, hysterical Colleen and Brian, so that they can venture into the mine themselves to find Matthew.
The boy was fully sucked into the show until Dr. Quinn decided that she was going to have to amputate Matthew’s broken leg, which was pinned beneath a giant slab of granite, as the mine was filling with water. At that point, my boy jumped out of his chair and shouted, “I don’t need to see any legs getting cut off!”
This was exactly when Hubs crawled downstairs with his blankets and whispered, “Is this that crazy woman-doctor show?”
And then he poked fun of it, while I got a little tearful over Matthew’s dramatic rescue from the mine, with his leg fully intact, and I wanted to cheer out loud with the town’s people as Sully burst forth out of the mine with Matthew in his arms.
I blame the hormones, because WHY? Why else would I start to cry over a sappy television show from the ’90s? When Hubs noticed that my eyes glistened a bit with extreme emotion, he simply started to sing very quietly to himself.
“You gotta have faith, faith…”
It took very little time before I was laughing out loud at Hubs’ whispered rendition of George Michael, while I continued to cry tears of happiness because Sully managed to carry Matthew through the mine and get him to safety before it totally collapsed.
As my luck would have it, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman was on a double feature tonight, so we followed the rescue of the miners up with the army handing out typhoid-laced blankets to the Native Americans, and I got a little emotional in this episode, too, and the tears came easily because PMS!!
I also gave up on the show entirely, because I’d rather gnaw my own foot off than listen to Hubs whisper from under his pile of six blankets to keep him warm as he suffers from the fever, “I can’t believe how well those Native Americans speak English! This show is just SO! DANG! REALISTIC!”
So we flipped the channels and introduced the boy to the world of COPS and drug deals gone bad, as they’re caught on film and aired on national television.
And then it was on to Wipeout, because we had some television goals in mind tonight.
I did eventually ask Hubs if he was hungry, and he replied, “No. I can’t eat anything. I’ve lost eight pounds in the last forty-eight hours, and my stomach will revolt if I put anything into it.”
In my sympathy for the sick stomach flu patient, I wasn’t even irritated that he could spend two days throwing up and lose eight solid pounds.
I made sub sandwiches for the boy and me, and Hubs looked over and asked, “Are you going to eat all of that sandwich? I could maybe try a bite. Or even half of it, if you want me to.”
I think Death Watch ’11 is over for Hubs. He can stop humming the Celine Dion songs (and the George Michael songs) now.